


Alpha

by Nival_Vixen



Series: Alpha Stiles [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Complete, Dark Derek, Dark Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Dark Stiles, Graphic Description of Corpses, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Murderers, Obsessive Behavior, Serial Killer Derek, Serial Killers, Series, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nival_Vixen/pseuds/Nival_Vixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been kidnapped by a serial killer known only as Alpha. Stiles finds himself far too attracted to the man that's probably going to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alpha

**Author's Note:**

> I have had an extremely awful day, so I shoved all of my bad feelings into this fic. Some of it gets a little descriptive.

Stiles watches the man as he prepares. He's tall, dark-haired, and looks like he could kill a person with his scowl alone (never mind the various knives and other sharp paraphernalia he has sitting on his workbench that are designed exactly for that purpose: killing people).

 

"Uh, excuse me? Mr. Serial Killer?"

 

He doesn't stop in his preparation, but Stiles sees that he glances his way, so he continues on.

 

"Just wondering if you know who you've kidnapped. I mean, I'm not famous or anything - obviously - but I am the kid of a cop, and... well, killing the kids of cops is generally a bad thing, y'know?"

 

The man - dubbed 'Alpha' by the media thanks to his calling card with a red-eyed wolf drawn on it - doesn't even pause or glance in Stiles' direction this time.

 

"Ah, all right. Guess you know who I am, then."

 

Again, there's no response. Stiles sighs; this is turning out to be a very uninformative kidnapping and boring possible murder. Still, he'd like more of the first and less of the latter if possible.

 

"I know from the news reports that you don't kill your victims for at least two days, so can I know your name, or do I just have to call you Alpha?"

 

There's a slight twitch at the name and the man scowls harder than before. Stiles hadn't thought that was possible, but he figures the man doesn't like his media-dubbed designation. Despite the obvious dislike of his name, he still doesn't answer Stiles' question.

 

"Tall, Dark and Murderous it is. So, TDM, any reason you chose me? Is it 'cause the cops are getting too close?"

 

The man finally stops preparing his workbench - or perhaps he's finished - and turns to scrutinise Stiles. He's holding a roll of duct tape in his hands, but he just watches Stiles for a moment and doesn't move forward.

 

"Are you always this chatty with your victims? 'Cause I gotta say, the strong and silent trope is kinda wearing thin for me."

 

Now the man does move forward, stalking across to Stiles in under five long strides of his even longer legs. Legs that are wrapped up in tight denim, and if this wasn't a situation where Stiles might end up dead, he'd probably check the guy out for a bit longer.

 

 _Ah, fuck it. Going to die someday - and probably sooner than I'd like, at that - might as well appreciate the view while I still can_ , Stiles thinks to himself, looking for the last few seconds before his space is crowded with Tall, Dark and Murderous' face.

 

"Wow. You have really pretty eyes for a serial killer."

 

The words are out before Stiles can stop himself, and out of everything he's said in the last hour, it's the only thing that's embarrassing enough to actually make him feel embarrassed. The man just blinks at him once, looking utterly confused for a split second. Then his confusion melts away as fast as it had appeared, and he grabs two handfuls of Stiles' shirt, ripping it down the middle.

 

"Aw, come on, was that _really_ necessary? Seriously, dude, you could've just lifted it up or something," Stiles mutters, mourning the loss of his favoured Avengers t-shirt. It was one of the few that actually had Black Widow pictured on it and everything!

 

The man ignores his protests and complaints, and physically moves Stiles around, obviously looking for something. Stiles would guess a wire, which might've been a smart idea if he'd known he was going to be kidnapped. Eventually, he seems satisfied, and turns Stiles around so they're face to face again.

 

"Don't call me dude."

 

His voice isn't as deep as Stiles expected just from looking at him, and it's softer than he imagined, too.

 

"Then give me a name."

 

The man is silent for a moment longer as he glances down towards Stiles' jeans, as if to determine whether the police would be desperate enough to put a wire on someone's legs. Stiles is wearing his bright red pair of jeans, the ones that are a little tighter than the rest, and he kind of hopes the guy doesn't tear them off too; a guy that looks like _that_ actually physically tearing his jeans off might be too much for his poor dick to handle, no matter if it's a sexual nature or not. Finally, he gives a brief nod, so small that Stiles almost misses it entirely.

 

"Derek."

 

"Nice to meet you, Derek. I'm Stiles. Are you really going to kill me?"

 

Derek nods firmly, and then for another split second, simply looks confused. "People are usually begging for mercy by now."

 

"Oh, yeah, nah. It's not the first time I've been kidnapped. The other times were a bit more interesting, but the other kidnappers weren't as good looking as you. Like, seriously, what sort of moisturiser do you use? If I live, I'm getting myself a bucket of it."

 

Derek, the poor thing, only looks more confused than before. "You're not going to live."

 

"Right. Damn shame. I bet your skin is like super soft," Stiles sighs, then lifts his bound hands to scratch at his itchy nose. "So, you kept pieces of all the other vic's; the right hand off the blonde, the heart of the brunette, the trachea of the redhead - nice work with putting her neck back like that; they might've missed it if her head hadn't fallen off."

 

Derek seems suspicious of him. "How do you know about that? It wasn't in the news reports."

 

"Of course it wasn't, you really think the police'd tell them that there's a serial killer out there collecting bits 'n pieces of people? They do that and you're no longer 'Alpha, murdering SOB with a wolf calling card', and instead you're dubbed 'Freak-n-stein's monster'.

 

"So, why only those parts? Usually serial killers focus on one aspect, y'know, hearts, fingers, skin, that sort of thing. There was this one guy back home that chopped people's hair off before he killed them. I'm like 98% positive that he ate it. Total weirdo."

 

Derek looks somewhat repulsed by Stiles' anecdote, and while Stiles is a little pleased to get a response that's not confusion, he still doesn't have any answers.

 

"I kept their best features," Derek admits, finally.

 

"Hmm, all right. What are you keeping from me? I've always liked my legs, but I don't know that I could choose one over the other," Stiles says, looking down to his legs and wiggling his toes as if to determine which leg was better.

 

"Not your legs."

 

"Well, it can't be my arms. They're scrawny twigs, no matter how often I go to the gym. So's the rest of me, really."

 

Derek steps back and looks Stiles over, scrutinising his every inch until Stiles feels utterly exposed, ripped shirt aside. It's also a little weird 'cause as much as he's being scrutinised as an object to be killed, Stiles can't help but feel turned on. He wills his traitorous dick not to get hard on him now, and tries to think of anything other than Derek looking at him the way he is.

 

"Well? You've been looking for like five whole minutes, surely there's something your pretty eyes like?" Stiles jests, a little too bitterly to be comedic.

 

Derek starts, as if he had forgotten that Stiles was even there in the first place, and then shakes his head. Again, there's that look of confusion, but this time it's also tinged with annoyance. "I can't decide."

 

"What?"

 

Derek exhales heavily through his nostrils, looking exactly like his wolf namesake for a moment, then starts to pace in front of Stiles. "It was the moles, at first. But then there's the cheekbones and the facial structure itself. The neck is good, and would be an alternative due to the moles, but the collarbones and shoulders would be necessary to fully appreciate the beauty. The chest has character: there's strength, even with the weakness. Hipbones, like the neck, would need the full waist area, or even the legs to be fully appreciated. The arms are not bad features, as you believe, but rather complement the rest of the body."

 

Stiles is, for one of the _very_ few times in his life, utterly speechless.

 

Derek looks red in the cheeks, as if he's frustrated and embarrassed at the same time, and even as he paces, he glowers at Stiles' body as if it's to blame for his indecision.

 

"You haven't seen all of me yet."

 

Stiles absolutely did **not** mean to say that. He did not mean to make it sound so suggestive, nor to practically suggest that his would-be-killer should strip him naked. _Well, maybe a little_. He might have sneaked a glance at his father's reports - he wasn't lying when he said that the police were getting close; Derek just didn't know how close they were, in fact - and Stiles _might_ have obsessed over Derek's photo more than normal. Who was he to say what was normal in the art of obsessing, anyway?

 

Derek stops pacing and looks at Stiles again. It's a shorter up-and-down than the last scrutinising look, but no less intense, and Stiles feels breathless as Derek moves toward him. He moves in slow and purposeful movements, and Stiles stupidly thinks that perhaps he's an alpha wolf after all, danger in his motions and death in his eyes.

 

 _Jesus fucking Christ, he's actually going to kill me. I'm going to die_.

 

The revelation makes Stiles freeze. He doesn't feel a need to beg or cry, but instead he feels oddly detached, even as Derek crowds up in his space again, his face mere millimetres away from his. Stiles feels like he's having an out-of-body experience, watching his own body, taking in his state of undress with his shirt ripped and hanging at his shoulders, his jeans a bright red colour - as bright as the blonde's lipstick, as bright as the brunette's shirt, as bright as the redhead's hair - and his hands bound in front of him with a zip tie. Stiles just watches as his solid self moves forward to press his lips to Derek's.

 

Then, without any kind of warning, he's back in his own body, pressed up against Derek and kissing him. Both of their eyes are wide open as they stare the other down, Stiles' lips chapped and dry while Derek's lips are soft and perfect, which he's sure has to be unfair in some way or another. He's ready to pull away - try to play this whole thing off, and hope like fuck that Derek won't kill him right now for this - but then Derek kisses him back.

 

Frankly, it's a mess. Derek kisses him like he's trying to eat his tongue, Stiles forgets that his hands are bound and smacks Derek in the face, Derek growls under his breath, his fingers raking down Stiles' pale mole-dotted skin, and Stiles loves every second of this kiss. They pull away, panting heavily, and Derek's pupils are blown wide, just as Stiles thinks his own might be. He grins, lips tweaked up at the side, and then licks his swollen and bleeding lips. There's a few smears of blood on Derek's lips, and careful with his hands this time, Stiles tugs Derek back in to lick his lips clean, gentle kitten licks that he's almost positive makes Derek shudder in pleasure.

 

Silence reigns when Stiles is satisfied enough to pull away again, and Derek looks as frozen as Stiles felt only minutes ago.

 

"You're doing this all wrong, by the way."

 

Derek blinks. "What?"

 

 _Ah,_ ** _there's_** _the deep register he was expecting earlier_.

 

"This kidnapping and murder spree you're on; you're doing it wrong."

 

Stiles barrels on before Derek can register that his pride has been injured. "I wasn't lying before when I said that the cops are close. They know who you are, Derek Simon Hale, and they have enough evidence that a semi-intelligent jury won't hesitate to lock you away for the rest of your natural-born life."

 

Derek's face turns to stone and he steps back. Stiles steps back as well, brings his arms up, then splits them down solidly over his thigh. It hurts like a motherfucker, but it has the desired result, and the zip tie flies off his wrists with no damage other than sore wrists and thigh.

 

"Now, since I read all of the police reports before I lured you in, I know exactly how you work and what tools you use," Stiles says, dodging past Derek's form nimbly and going to the workbench. "Start off with the scalpel, a more professional touch that others avoid in lieu of butchering their victims and causing the most pain. But the scalpel's good, it's sharp, and it hurts worse than a paper-cut right between the fingers."

 

Derek stands a metre back, still looking torn between trying to recapture Stiles or leave all together. Stiles knows that he won't do either.

 

"The knife is next, I believe? Usually in the stomach to allow the victim to bleed out; the blond was menstruating when you killed her, I don't think she would have appreciated the irony," Stiles muses.

 

"She didn't."

 

Stiles sets the knife down carefully in its rightful place beside the scalpel, and smiles to himself before he makes his expression more neutral, and turns to face Derek again.

 

"After the knife, you tend to get emotional, and things get a bit _messy_."

 

Derek scowls at him, much like the expression he wore about two hours ago when Stiles had first woken up and started talking, but Stiles just smiles back at him.

 

"You don't do this for the power, there's no sexual attraction in it for you - despite our kiss," Stiles adds with a wink, "You're doing this for the art, the beauty of life and death, and no one is understanding that, least of all your victims when _they_ of all people should know what you're doing. So this is where you get angry. The knife gets sharper, bigger, crueller. Jagged marks and digging in to their bodies carelessly, probably all the while they're crying and begging you to stop - you don't use duct tape on their mouths, just the wrists and ankles - because they don't understand the gift you're giving them, to be remembered this way, as beautiful to the rest of the world as they are to you, strung up in a warehouse in the guise of an angel. You regret being that angry, afterwards, but it's part of the process now, so you can't stem the consuming rage even if you wanted to."

 

There's a soft thud, and Stiles sees that Derek's fallen to his knees, is watching him like he's an illusion, like he's a real-life angel and not the kind he mocks with his murderous art. He's staring at Stiles like he's a starving man and Stiles is a delicacy that he couldn't dare eat, no matter his own hunger.

 

"After the anger, the cruelty, you are remorseful and kill them quickly, across the throat and down the arms. I like to think that you hold them as they're dying, cocooning them in your arms against the cruelties from the rest of the world, their blood staining you even as they're dying for you, sacrificing themselves for your art."

 

Derek nods briefly, but Stiles barely notices.

 

"Once they've died, you take so much care with them, cleaning them and dressing them, and making them beautiful again. You only take your trophies post-mortem, keep their best features for yourself, because shouldn't the artist keep something of his art, too? Then you hang them in a warehouse, place an anonymous call, and wait for the police to arrive and discover your newest exhibition.

 

"But you've made mistakes, Derek. You cleaned the warehouses with industrial grade cleaners, so your DNA is difficult to match with any hair follicles found, but it's very suspicious when a civilian buys that many cleaning products every few months. Taking your victims best features means that if your house is ever searched, those features will be discovered, and the DNA evidence will back it up to put you away for a long time. As you're the one to make the anonymous call each time, they have your voice on record."

 

Derek pales, rising to stand again on shaking limbs. He looks ready to run, as if he can hear the police sirens already, and Stiles can't let that happen.

 

"I can help you," Stiles says, stepping closer.

 

"How?" Derek asks, voice soft again.

 

"You made me drive my car here; I have the answer in the trunk for you."

 

At Derek's nod, Stiles leads him outside to his car and opens the trunk, watching Derek's reaction carefully. Peter struggles against the duct tape binds and gag that Stiles put on him, eyes wide and pleading with his nephew, and Derek looks between Peter and Stiles incredulously.

 

"You won't be able to do the same with him, Derek. It needs to look like a remorseful suicide."

 

Derek spies the length of rope curled up beside Peter's form and nods. He looks at his uncle - Peter makes some sort of noise behind the duct tape that he wouldn't listen to even if he could hear him properly - and he smiles right before he draws back his fist and knocks Peter out.

 

...

 

"I'm sorry to hear about the way your uncle manipulated you, Derek. Family should never have that kind of power," John murmurs, hand gentle as it rests on Derek's shoulder.

 

"I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to get away from him," Derek murmurs.

 

John squeezes his shoulder and moves back to sit at his desk. "Now, I know you're grateful to my son for helping you escape your uncle, but are you sure..." He pauses for a moment to rethink his wording, frowns, then sighs heavily and continues anyway, "Are you sure that you asking Stiles on a date isn't some sort of Stockholm Syndrome or hero worship thing? I know it was a few months ago now, but Stiles helping you back then in _no way_ means that you're indebted to him."

 

"I know that, sir. I really do want to spend more time with Stiles," Derek replies, though there's a familiar rage that boils away under the surface at the other man's implication.

 

"All right, I won't ask again. Just know that he is my son, and I don't care where you go camping this weekend, but he's to come back in one piece."

 

"Of course, sir. I would never let anyone harm Stiles."

 

"Good to hear. Now, you go off and enjoy yourselves. No details, please."

 

Derek just nods and leaves the office as fast as possible. Stiles is already waiting outside in his car, their sleeping bags in the backseat of the car. The more interesting bags are in the trunk of car, one filled with the pieces of Derek's victims and hidden inside of the petrol container, waiting to be set alight and buried deep within the forest. In the second bag is a pair of scalpels, knives, and two rolls of duct tape.

 

When they're driving towards the interstate and out towards the forest, Stiles looks over to Derek. "Ready to go hunting, Alpha?"

 

"Don't call me Alpha."

 

"Fine. Ready to go hunting, Derek?"

 

"Yes, Alpha."

 

Stiles smirks and turns his attention back to the road.

 

...

 

The end.

 

Thanks for reading.


End file.
